


A Small Stack of Books

by kraken_creature



Series: Ineffably Ever After [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Books, Domestic Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, Living Together, M/M, Post-Canon, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), sfw, ukobach - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-08-12 02:12:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20123560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kraken_creature/pseuds/kraken_creature
Summary: Crowley finds that Aziraphale is slowly moving in with him. The books are taking over the apartment and Crowley struggles to find the words to tell Aziraphale how he feels about it all.References to sex, but this is a very fluffy, SFW, post-cannon piece about our favourite idiots starting their life together.





	A Small Stack of Books

**Author's Note:**

> This can be read after "In One Night", "The Ground Rules" and/or "In The Garden", but the style of each piece is a little different and some of them are sweeter/smuttier than others. Each one of the Ineffably Ever After pieces can stand alone or be read in sequence, as preferred.

It started with a few books, of course. How could it not? They appeared miraculously on the nightstand one night, a week after the apoco-whoops, and were not remarked upon in the morning. Aziraphale and Crowley had spent only one night apart in that week and it was inevitable that Aziraphale would become restless while Crowley slept; he did not often sleep himself but was happy for Crowley to keep the habit. After that, whenever he stayed at the apartment, Aziraphale would lie in bed at night and read while Crowley spooned against him and, occasionally, snored softly.

They had much to celebrate at that time, and a great deal of time to make up for. Finding themselves free of interference from heaven and hell, free to spend as much time together as they liked, they became rather inseparable. Their days were spent in a lover’s idyll. Sometimes they picnicked or went to art galleries. Sometimes they dined out or shared good wines. Sometimes they talked all night or kissed all day. And always, they gravitated back to Crowley’s apartment.

If anyone had asked, Aziraphale would argue that he liked his bookshop, so his drift away from it went unnoticed at first. The bookshop had served three purposes: it had provided a legitimate base of operation for more than 150 years, it housed Aziraphale’s book collection, and it was a comfortable place to read and, every so often, discreetly share a few bottles with an old enemy. Aziraphale now had no operations to necessitate a base and Crowley’s company could be kept anywhere they pleased. Because of this, and because of other more physical distractions, a month went by without Aziraphale feeling any need to open the shop and scare away would-be customers.

During this time, a tea caddy materialised in Crowley’s cupboard. And then a teacup and saucer. “It’s uncouth to drink tea in a mug, my dear,” Aziraphale insisted. “It doesn’t _taste_ the same.” Crowley pulled a face on principle; he didn’t mind terribly. He saw to it that Aziraphale’s favourite cocoa was put in the cupboard, along with an angel-winged mug identical to the one he used at the shop. The gesture made Aziraphale gush with gratitude. Crowley casually dismissed the thanks he received, and silently summoned pastries and fine cheeses into the kitchen, banishing the holidaying fire demon from the fridge so that it could be used as intended.

Then came a pair of reading glasses, a bottle of cologne and some clothes. Aziraphale didn’t have many clothes to begin with, preferring always his old waistcoat and jacket, but an extra chest of drawers was acquired for the few things he had. Pyjamas were added to the collection, and a new dressing gown. He had never needed pyjamas before, but he liked them immediately upon trying them.

The pile of books on the nightstand grew. Sometimes books were summoned with a wave of Aziraphale’s hand and sometimes they were actually carried from the shop. In no short time there were piles of books on the new chest of drawers, and on Crowley’s desk, and in the lounge.

Aziraphale spent time at the bookshop less and less often. He and Crowley were happy to go out together or stay in. He was becoming quite comfortable at Crowley’s. He would be content to try to cook while Crowley watched TV, or read him poetry, or (and he would always blush as he thought of this) make love. If Crowley slept for more than a day at a time, then Aziraphale would go on long walks or take himself out for a meal. He was used to being alone, but he was used to being alone in the shop. Now he didn’t care to be there very much. If it was a nice day then he would tell himself that he wanted to read in the park, and if it rained then he would reason that it was simply too grim to travel across town. He would say that he wasn’t in the mood to deal with the customers, not knowing that this is true of most shopkeepers.

When Aziraphale did go to the shop, he would usually do so alone. Crowley would drive him there and pick him up at an agreed upon time, going in only if asked to do so. Crowley, at least, knew why he did not want to be there. The bookshop seemed different after the fire, and not just because of the new selection of children’s adventure classics that Adam had willed into being. For Crowley, the bookshop was now a place of bad memories. A few quickies in the back room could not make Crowley forget the feeling of loss that echoed in the tall shelves, although he was prepared to keep trying.

Months passed and each time that Crowley collected Aziraphale from the bookshop an armful of books was carefully placed on the backseat of the Bentley and then wordlessly carried up to the apartment.

Then came the sofa and chairs. They were transported from the bookshop to Crowley’s lounge with a click of his long fingers. Aziraphale had pouted and fussed that Crowley’s sofa was not at all comfortable, being designed to look good rather than feel good. They had made do but something soft was preferable for cuddling on. “Sssoft is good,” Crowley had said, wrapping one arm around Aziraphale’s middle. They kissed and, when Aziraphale opened his eyes again, the furniture was replaced. It didn’t at all match Crowley’s austere, grey décor, but neither minded the contrast. Two evenings later a nest of tables was sitting alongside Aziraphale’s favourite seat. A small pile of books and a mug of cocoa rested on the top.

“New table?” Crowley asked as he slid onto the sofa. He spread out around Aziraphale and wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

“Old table, newly arrived,” Aziraphale replied carefully, looking up from his book. He frowned a little in concern. “Do you mind awfully? It’s useful to put my drink down while I’m reading, you see.”

“S’fine,” Crowley said. And it was. Aziraphale smiled at him, and that was finer. “Whatever you want, angel.”

The stacks of books continued to grow. They grew and separated into smaller piles, which in turn grew. Crowley had the uncomfortable feeling that the piles of books were alive and reproducing; his understanding of reproduction was largely botanical in nature, but it seemed that if trees could make more trees or be made into books, then surely books could also make books. He considered ways to keep the rampant manuscripts under control, and settled on containment:

“Why don’t we get some shelves?” he said one day.

Aziraphale looked confused. “Shelves?”

“Yes. _For all the books_,” Crowley replied patiently, lifting his eyebrows. He gestured expansively with his arms, taking in the bedroom at large and its many piles of books, some of which were now on the floor for want of space on the available surfaces.

“Oh. Yes, I suppose shelves would be nice.”

Dark wooden bookshelves were quickly installed in the office. They took up one wall from floor to ceiling. Aziraphale spent a happy weekend cataloguing the books that had made it into the apartment and sorting them onto the shelves.

“There are rather a lot, aren’t there, dear?” Aziraphale asked over his shoulder. The shelves were already half full and the apartment was not yet half empty.

Crowley shrugged slowly and lied, “Hadn’t noticed.” He sloped away to glower at his plants and corral any books that were lurking among them.

Behind him, Crowley heard Aziraphale wonder aloud, “What will I do if they don’t all fit?”

That was half of the problem, Crowley realised. There would never really be enough space there for both of them and their multiplying plants and books.

Clutter was not Crowley’s style. He had been content with his plants and a few carefully chosen and deftly stolen pieces of art. Aziraphale’s more homely touches were welcome, however, exactly because they were Aziraphale’s. His cologne hung in the air. His teacup sat by the sink. His quilt clashed gloriously with the bedding. Crowley had finally started to feel at home. Until then, the apartment had simply been a place to sleep and lurk, and lurking could effectively be done anywhere. He wanted Aziraphale to feel at home with him.

Crowley misted the plants’ leaves and muttered obscenities to them as he thought. From the next room, he could hear Aziraphale humming to himself as he arranged the books. He felt himself smiling and swallowed it down. He scowled at the plant in front of him. “That wasn’t for _you_. You make me _sick_. Pathetic, degenerate waste of good compost.”

Something had to be done.

. . . .

Three years had now passed since the apocalypse had failed to happen, barely a blink to two immortals in love. Occasionally Crowley would cause a car alarm to go off without reason or interfere with internet speeds just for old time’s sake, and sometimes Aziraphale would improve the weather slightly or move someone, against all reason and Britishness, to chat to a stranger and make a new friend, but they were under no obligation to please anyone but themselves.

It was a mild, clear morning and Crowley had a plan. He slipped his sunglasses on and bent to tie his shoelaces, hiding his expression. As casually as he could, he called across the bedroom, “I fancy going for a drive today. What do you say?”

“If you like, my dear,” Aziraphale replied as he buttoned his waistcoat. “Where do you want to go to?”

“Oh, I dunno.” He pretended to give it thought but didn’t pause for long. He didn’t want Aziraphale to make a suggestion. “We could go to the coast. Get out of the city for a while.”

Aziraphale glanced out of the window, over the rooftops and across the high-rises of London. “That does sound nice.” He kissed Crowley’s head as he made to leave the room. “Let me have a little breakfast and then we can go.”

“Mmm.” Crowley smiled to himself.

. . .

The Bentley left London at its usual break-neck speed. Aziraphale cringed at every junction as Crowley seemingly manoeuvred the car without any consideration for other road users. Crowley leaned back in his seat, steering with one hand. He had learned early on that it was easier to simply arrange things so that nobody was in the way and, besides, scaring other motorists with near misses was part of the fun of driving.

As they headed south of Pease Pottage, however, the car began to slow. It was a gradual change, so subtle that Aziraphale did not notice for many miles as he began to relax into his seat and look out at the countryside with a curious smile rather than his usual tense concern for the welfare of any wildlife that unwisely wished to cross the road.

Finally, with an exited gasp, Aziraphale cried, “Look, my dear! The sea!” They had turned a corner and caught a clear sight to the ocean, for just a moment, before turning into a village.

Crowley took the Bentley down the market street well below the speed limit. In his excitement, Aziraphale didn’t notice. “Oh, a bakery! And a butcher.” He scanned the high street. “Oh, it’s such a sweet village. I do so love these independent shops. Perhaps we can stop and get something to eat?”

Without a word, Crowley parked the Bentley in the next available parking space. There was always a parking space when he needed one.

. .

The backseat was loaded with shopping bags. Aziraphale beamed and soaked in the view as Crowley drove on toward the coast, expressionless and five miles below the speed limit. The sea was in view again before Crowley spoke.

“Let’s stop here for a bit,” he said, pulling into the driveway of a large cottage.

“The owners may object,” Aziraphale replied.

Crowley stopped the engine and gestured out of the window to a For Sale sign. “No owners home. No problem.” He slid out of the car before Aziraphale could protest further and came around to open the passenger door. “Come on, angel.”

Aziraphale smiled and climbed out of the car. He assumed that Crowley must want to park off the road and walk to the beach but, before he could set off down the path, a woman’s voice stopped him.

“Hello,” she called cheerfully, stepping out of the front door of the cottage. Her heels clicked on the front steps.

“Hiii,” Crowley drawled. He strode on long legs toward the cottage. “Crowley.”

The woman beamed. Aziraphale stepped up beside Crowley, frowning.

“Ah, yes. We spoke on the phone, Mr Crowley.” They shook hands as she spoke. “My name is Jeanette.”

Aziraphale turned to Crowley but was cut off as Crowley breezed, “Jeanette. This is my better half.”

Jeanette turned her plum-lipped smile on Aziraphale and extended her hand to him. “It’s lovely to meet you, Mister…?”

“Fell,” he replied, shaking her hand uncertainly.

“Wonderful. Do come in. There’s a lot to see.”

Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand and stepped into the cottage. Jeanette breezed through the entrance hall ahead of them, enthusing about its good light. She led them into a large lounge with a fireplace. She moved at a brisk pace and Aziraphale felt himself swept up in the odd situation. He trailed along beside Crowley, through a charming dining room, and peered politely into a beautiful study. They were passed through a greenhouse and turned around sizeable a garden with a view of the sea. There was no opening in Jeanette’s eager chatter as she extoled the virtues of the property. Aziraphale was quite sure that the cottage was lovely, but still couldn’t fathom why it should be of interest to him. Crowley would not meet his gaze and moved them along in Jeanette’s wake, nodding as she spoke.

As they re-entered into the kitchen (bright and well appointed) Aziraphale finally felt his temper run short. He stopped still in the middle of the room and, as Jeannette and Crowley made to lead the procession upstairs, Crowley felt himself pulled to a stop by the anchor of Aziraphale’s hand in his.

Finally, Crowley turned, his eyebrows raised. He took in Aziraphale’s drawn brows and tight lips.

“Errr, just give us a minute, yeah?” Crowley called over his shoulder.

“No problem at all,” Jeanette trilled and moved out of sight, into the lounge.

Crowley took a step closer to Aziraphale, his face blank and as near to innocent as he could manage.

“Why are we here, Crowley?” Aziraphale said at last.

“For a break. In the country.”

“No,” he said firmly. “Why are we here, in this cottage? Why are we being shown around when you said you wanted a day out?”

Crowley tilted his head to one side and licked his lips. “For a break, angel. We need space.”

Aziraphale’s frown flickered through shock and horror. He swallowed and looked down. He focused on Crowley’s neck and tried to speak calmly: “You need space from me?”

“What? No!” Crowley was genuinely surprised; his first truly honest expression all day. “No, no, no, nooo. With you. More space with you.”

Aziraphale’s expression lightened slightly. He looked up and carefully took the dark glasses from Crowley’s face to look him in the eyes. “Explain it to me. Please.”

Crowley pondered for a moment. He had thought of so many ways to broach this idea. It had seemed like such a nice surprise when he planned it. Now, looking at his love’s worried face, all the clever words slithered away. He nodded. “Alright.” He took a breath to steady himself. Had he misjudged this? Was he going too fast again? “Alright. We need more space. The flat’s not big enough, not for both of us and five lifetime’s worth of stuff. And I thought we could do with a break. From London. We’ve both been there since the last plague. We could use some fresh air and a place to just …_be_… together.”

“Is taking me to look at a house your strange way of asking me to move in with you?” Aziraphale asked slowly.

“Angel. You already have moved in with me. This is my way of asking you to move _with_ me.”

Aziraphale thought about it, his eyes flicking away. He smiled, faltered, and then smiled again. “I rather have moved in, haven’t I? I didn’t even notice myself doing it.”

“It was a little at a time,” Crowley agreed.

“Do you mind?” he asked, looking up at Crowley again.

“I love it. I want more of it.” Aziraphale looked uncertain. Crowley sighed and continued, “Look. It’s hard. I’m not supposed to be comfortable and content. I’m not supposed to want to be happy, just make everyone else miserable. You make me better. Your cocoa’s bloody ridiculous, but it smells good. Your books have taken over, but so help me if you move any of them out. I threw Ukobach out of the fridge for your fancy food. I can’t take a shower anymore without thinking about that thing you do. And when you smile, sometimes, I feel like I’m going to discorporate. I don’t deserve you smiling at me, but I’m greedy and I want it. I want to wake up next to you every day. Forever. And we can have that, if you like. We can actually make a home together, not just one with my walls and your furniture. Not just compromising. We’re _done_ compromising.”

Aziraphale’s face had softened into a sweet, contented smile. “Here?”

“If you like it. You could have the study, and we can put up extra bookshelves in the other rooms. And I could grow vegetables and fruit for you. Or we can go somewhere else. Or we can stay put, and I’ll… figure out a way of making the flat bigger. Whatever you want, angel, as long as we’re together.”

Aziraphale nodded and pressed himself into Crowley’s arms, nuzzling his head under Crowley’s chin as they embraced. “I like it here,” he said into Crowley’s chest.

“Alright. Here then.” Crowley turned his head to one side and called loudly, “House person! We’ll take it.”

.

The cottage was sold at exactly the asking price, with an unusual lack of negotiation and delays. The surveys came back singing the praises of the property which, for its age, miraculously showed no signs of the usual problems.

They moved in within a month. They agreed to decorate and furnish it slowly, making choices together. There was time, after all. And there were compromises, of course, but their home quickly began to look like _theirs_ rather than his and his.

On the first night in the cottage, Aziraphale and Crowley both slept in each other’s arms under an old, familiar quilt on a new bed. It was large and comfortable, and from here, with the window open, they could hear the sea. The only other furniture in the room were the two mismatched nightstands: a dark, sleek metal stand held only a pair of dark, sleek sunglasses, while an antique wooden stand housed a small stack of books.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks again to a monster for their suggestions, this time on who could be squatting in Crowley's fridge. I mentioned a presence in the fridge in a previous piece and felt like whatever malevolent spirit was there deserved a bit more acknowledgement. More info on Ukobach can be found on Wikipedia.


End file.
